A Scandal Called Love
by kasviel
Summary: My version of "A Scandal in Bohemia", adding characterizations from the 2009 movie and Watson/Holmes as a couple. Sequel to "A Break in the Chain", and the 2nd of 3 planned stories. A light-hearted interlude between the angst.


**Author's Notes**

A more light-hearted case this time around: This is a complete rewrite of _"A Scandal in Bohemia"_, with some added turns and plot developments. This case was where Sherlock Holmes was bested by the woman, Irene Adler. There is an undertone of mild eroticism between the two here, which was not present in the books but seemed necessary given their behavior in the movie. Again, you do not necessarily have to have read the original stories of Holmes to follow along here, even more so on this one since I chose to keep the heart of the tale intact, therefor borrowing heavily from it. The dialogue is changed around some, there are some fights, a surprise at the end I made up entirely, and of course all the romance between Watson and Sherlock is of my own volition ;-) Other than that, it follows the _"Scandal" _case closely. I really liked that little story, and there was a lot I could not bring myself to leave out.

As to Irene, she does monopolize a share of the story, not in narration but in presence. I wanted to explore Sherlock's love/hate relationship with her, and his aversion to women (this aversion was made **very **clear in the literature, even more so than in the movie, believe it or not). Her presence will probably be taken different ways by different readers, as it was in the movie: love, hate, or indifference. I did consider skipping this story and going straight to another planned story, which is the events directly before the movie opens, but I ended up finishing this more light-hearted tale after all. I think some important things are said here between Sherlock and Watson, their relationship is either strengthened or weakened by this (can't spoil it by saying which). Besides, I will establish Mary's involvement with Watson in the third story, so before that I think it is only fair I establish some of Irene's relationship with Holmes.

If you think I am leading the events along with so much love between Holmes and Watson, and causing you to wonder, "Well, how in the world will they finally break up?", then you are absolutely correct ;-) I am deliberately establishing this bond between Watson and Holmes. I think the full effect of their break-up becomes more striking that way, and there is some mystery to it, as well. I intend to flesh out the "how" in my own way, later. This is a lighter, less turmoil-ridden interlude before the darker, more angst-filled third story I am planning. Needless to say, I have lots of ideas already simmering. I'm pretty taken with the new "Holmes" franchise, much in the way I once wrote several "Pirates of the Caribbean" stories, or how I was fixated on "Harry Potter" for a while (good memories there).

Ah, a little note. About Watson's gambling: Sherlock made a remark to Mary about a gambling problem over that ill-fated dinner where he met her (in the movie). I believe it was a joke of Holmes', cynical, but I put it in as part of Watson's character. In the literature, he was an over-spending financial wreck before he roomed with Sherlock, anyway, so it is not too far from the truth. It gives him some more rough edges, which I like, and is less vague than him having been living above his means.

All said, thanks so, so much for all the incredible reviews of the first story. It means a lot to me, and I have never gotten that many reviews over the span of a few days! I'm happy if anyone even _glances _at a story of mine, let alone takes the time to review it. I've been at it for quite a number of years, and this hobby of mine has grown with me. I really try to think about the characters and their relationships, evoke some kind of feeling between them that is as tangible to the reader as it is to myself. It's great when I know I've succeeded. It spreads the fandom around and makes it even more fun, doesn't it? So, again, thank you very much.

* * *

**Prologue**

_**From the personal diaries of John H. Watson, M.D.**_

"_The days have passed slowly, as the spring turns to a steamy, smog-aired summer. Sherlock fell into melancholy soon after the case I named "A Study in Scarlet", which is now fully documented and published. I found him a few days after the case closed, the newspaper article nearby on a table (as he predicted, it mentioned him in passing as an amateur that might learn from the talents of the Scotland Yard officers), and the narcotic on top of that. He was smoking his pipe, and he glanced up at me, dark eyes clouded over yet none the less alert, with a wary look. I was sympathetic, and in a fairly bad mood myself due to a number of lost bets, and so I let him have his vice. Lazy of me, I know, but I simply did not have the heart to whip him like that again-- at least not on that day._

"_So, Sherlock continued to live in bored disarray, while I fell into heavier gambling. The summer heat gave the rooms a dusty, heady odor, and we spent most the time half-dressed without our jackets, ties, or vests (Sherlock, often, stark naked beneath a robe). When Sherlock is not busy with some experiment or succumbed to the drowsiness of his drugs, we make love with a fiery passion, any time of the night or day we feel like. It is a decadent lifestyle, and one I never imagined myself capable of falling into, but there it is. _

"_Lately, he is in a fouler mood than ever. I see him pacing back and forth, twinging out those little spurts of notes from his fiddle, his eyes faraway. He has not touched the drug for a time, which causes me to believe he is working, but working on what? The most I have seen him do is sit to write furiously, letters pages long, and then dress himself hastily and rush out to the post. I have become accustomed to the bizarre, but this is a tad more peculiar than even Holmes' usual. I question him about the letters, but he waves a hand and brushes the subject off without one wit of explanation. I wonder if he is merely toying with me, though it is unlike the man to play games; his brutal honesty with me at least keeps him from outright deception. _

"_Ah, but I hear him coming in now from the post. I have one of the first copies of our adventure with me today. Perhaps it will lift his spirit to know at least one person in the ungracious world has respect for his accomplishments."_

Dr. John Watson set down his pen, and tucked his diary away inside a drawer of the writing desk. He locked the drawer, though he reflected upon the uselessness of this action; Holmes was not interested in emotional scribblings, and if he were, he could easily pick the lock. Shaking his head, Watson completed the action for the mere habit of it, and then got to his feet. His fair hair curled slightly at the ends from the moisture of sweat that misted over him, and his shirt hung open between his suspenders. It was an unbearably hot day, and he rolled his sleeves up further as he exited his bedroom.

Sherlock was just stepping into the sitting room, removing his jacket hastily. He saw Watson, and immediately knew what he was doing, and what he was about to. It amused him how his lover was an open book, and was glad that at least the doctor did not bother with silly, futile attempts to hide it.

_The ink smudges at the very tips of his fingers indicate his having been writing, presumably in that diary he insists on keeping due to the thinner, cheaper quality of the ink staining his fingers, and the lack of signs of more demanding work, such as the wax for seals on a letter. I have yet to see him write in the diary without speaking to me directly afterward, so it is safe to say he often writes about me. Today, judging by the lack of excess heaviness in his step or rigor in his spine, he has not reflected upon me negatively, at least. _

Sherlock smiled, allowed Watson to give him a quick kiss in greeting. When they moved close in that brief instance, Sherlock felt the outline of a small book in Watson's pocket, and he sighed to himself. _Ah, now I know what it is he wishes to talk to me about._

"At the post again?" Watson questioned, pouring them both a glass of water. "Ah. No, do not tell me, let me deduce it." He smirked as he handed Sherlock his glass. "Given your having left with a bundle of letters in the inside pocket of your jacket, and your having returned without any sign of them, I come to the conclusion that you were, without a doubt, at the post."

Sherlock could not help a laugh. "Well," he said, "at least that is better logic than the Yard ever comes up with, Doctor."

Watson joined the laugh, and they sat down, Sherlock with his feet up on the sofa, Watson in the large, high-backed chair. Sherlock was loosening his striped necktie impatiently, and for a moment held the cool glass of water to his forehead.

"Speaking of the Yard, I think you will be pleased to know that I have put them to shame, at least in words," Watson said. He removed the book from his pocket. "Do you know what this is?"

"Yes, the _fantastically _titled 'Study in Scarlet', the story of our case," Sherlock said, though he did not sound pleased.

Watson's enthusiasm wavered. "That's right."

"It went to print three days ago, and you bought it yesterday, when you finally recovered a small portion of your recent losses," Sherlock said. Staring into his glass, he said flatly, "I am afraid I honestly cannot congratulate you on it, Watson."

Watson sat back in his chair, blue eyes cool and steady on Sherlock. He was silent for a minute, assuring himself that he would not let his scornful lover get under his skin. In an even voice that almost achieved pleasantry, he asked, "And why not?"

"Because I skimmed through it on the date of publication. Watson, detection is an exact science, and the subject thereof should be treated in the same cold, detached manner," Sherlock explained, sounding like a teacher addressing a particularly slow, excitable child. "In your narrative, the facts are colored with romanticism, which is--" He sighed. "--no less than I expected you to do. You show promise for deduction at times, Watson, but you are, at heart, an admirer of the maudlin. You would work a love story into the very proposals of Euclid, my friend."

Watson took a sip from his glass, continued to stare at Holmes. He could feel his temper rising. "I told the facts as they stood," he said. "I could not help it if the story turned out to be fantastic."

"You chose not to suppress facts that marred the data, illustrated the entire thing with a poet's flourish, Watson," Sherlock said, shaking his head. His tone was now that of a man reciting a beloved relatives' funeral sermon. "Really, the only thing worth telling of that case was my infallibly-woven chain of logic which bound the thing into reason. A study of my analytical reasoning would have been sufficient."

Watson pointed the book at him. "You wanted a study of your brilliance, that is what you wanted."

Sherlock looked nonplussed. "And why not?"

Watson exhaled, getting to his feet. He crossed his arms, looking down at his partner. "Does anything please you, Holmes?"

"You are offended. There is no reason to take offense." Sherlock took Watson's arm and pulled him down to sit beside him on the sofa. "I appreciate your attempt to give credit to my scientific deduction methods, even if you did display them in an overwrought spiel of nonsense."

"An overwrought spiel of nonsense?"

"Indubitably."

Watson took the man by the wrist and gave him a tug that pulled him over his lap. Sherlock struggled lightly, but was too weary to make much fuss. With a small sigh, he hung there, over the man's knees, and traced the pattern of the carpet mathematically.

"You are a terrible ingrate, Holmes," Watson scolded him. He lifted the book and slapped the hard cover against the man's backside. "I wrote that specifically for you, and you dare dismiss it like trash!"

"I did not dismiss it, I merely critiqued it."

"Without so much as an ounce of delicacy," Watson pointed out, continuing to spank the man with the discredited book. "You appreciate nothing!"

"Did you really write it for me?"

Watson paused, looking down at him. Sherlock twisted his head around to see him, and gave him a flushed, sheepish smile. Watson hesitated, but then resumed the spanking. "Yes, I did," he admitted ruefully.

Sherlock squirmed, leaned the side of his face against the man's leg. "I do appreciate the effort, Doctor, I do."

"Ha!"

"It was sweet."

"Do not placate me, Holmes!"

Sherlock's mouth turned down, and he grew sullen. It was the first time Watson struck him since the whipping, and the reminder of that incident was not pleasant. This was comparatively quite mild in physical effect, but the undignified position was almost more humiliating: a baby's mild correction! Had he never left the nursery?

Of course, voicing such protests would only further his appearance of childishness, and so his pride kept him silent.

A knock at the door interrupted it, and both men looked over in faint alarm. Watson stood Holmes up from his lap, and got to his feet. Giving his abashed lover a small kiss on the lips, he then set the book down and went to answer the knock.

Sherlock straightened his clothing indignantly, crossing his arms. He did not quite know what to do with himself, and felt uncharacteristically silly. Damn Watson, anyway! Why was he such a dupe for the hypocritical demand for manners? He could be smart and Sherlock loved him, but at times he was simply so very _ordinary_!

Sherlock had known from the small pattern of knocks that it was the landlady, Mrs. Hudson. He scarcely glanced over to see Watson leading her in to ascertain his assumption. The woman was kind, though she could be naggingly coddling. At times, she almost seemed to be aware of Sherlock and Watson's relationship, but she was far too polite to comment on it.

"Quite some noise coming from up here," the lady remarked casually to Watson on the way to the chairs. "Is Mr. Holmes experimenting again?"

"As a matter of fact, I was," Watson replied. He offered her a chair, throwing a knowing smirk over at Sherlock. "Mr. Holmes _insisted _that I demonstrate some more obscure effects of gravity."

Sherlock lifted his face arrogantly, refusing to be ruffled. Though both Watson and Mrs. Hudson were now seated, he remained on his feet, leaned against the mantle of the long-unused fireplace.

"Seat, Holmes?" Watson asked pointedly.

Sherlock glared at him. "I would rather stand."

Watson smiled to himself, having to make effort to stifle a laugh. Mrs. Hudson glanced between them, and made matters worse (in her vaguely discerning way) by saying, "Why, you are absolutely scarlet, Mr. Holmes. Would you gentlemen like me to bring you up some ice from the box?"

"I think Mr. Holmes might appreciate that, yes," Watson chuckled.

Sherlock turned deeper red.

"I'll have some brought up, then," Mrs. Hudson said. "Now, as to the due payment for the rooms--"

"Ah, right!" Sherlock's eyes gleamed, and now he gave Watson a smug half-grin. "I believe Mr. Watson is the one to speak to about that. As you know, I have already turned in my share on my way out to the post."

Watson's humor fell off his face instantly. He bowed his head, then nodded to himself. Holmes knew he was reaffirming Watson's opinion of him as a spiteful brat, but he did not care. He just lifted his face smugly. _Well, there, good for him. Who tells him to humiliate me so? _

"As to that, I was wondering if we might discuss it in private, Mrs. Hudson?" Watson said. "Sherlock, do you mind?"

"I don't see why."

Watson's look spoke of murder, and Sherlock froze. His eyes widened a touch, and he realized it was time to back down.

"--not," he added. "I don't see why not."

Sherlock left them. He retrieved a book from the shelves in the back of the room, paced back and forth pretending to read it. His eyes lifted now and then, however, and still he did not sit.

Watson felt stricken by the sheer inertia of his life during the past months. Not having his share of the boarding fee for the month drove home the deterioration of his life, and he felt the shame overtake him. He was living as he had during his stay in the hotel, his irresponsible habits having returned full force. What excuse did he have for it now? Had life not found him a decent home, a companion to ease the loneliness of the city?

_And I dare have the nerve to accuse Sherlock of being ungrateful, _he thought guiltily. _Ahhh, hypocrisy! At least Sherlock does not pretend to be what he's not! . . . Unless it is for a job, of course._

Mrs. Hudson was very understanding and gracious. She agreed to wait for the fee, not even specifying a deadline. Watson thanked her effusively and led her out.

Sherlock went on with his pretense of reading, until Watson pulled the tome from his hands, shut it, and returned it to the shelf (two books over from its proper alphabetical place, which was ironic given that Watson was the one who insisted on keeping the books ordered).

"Shall I fetch your whip, doctor?" Sherlock asked dryly.

Watson frowned in bafflement. "Why ever for, Holmes?"

Sherlock gave him a look.

"Oh, that," Watson said, referring to the spanking. He waved a hand. "No, no, that was-- I did not mean to severely punish you, Holmes, just take you down a peg."

Sherlock crossed his arms. "But do you not blame me for your not having the rent?"

"Why in the world would I blame you, love?"

Sherlock faltered. Was his estimation of Watson wrong?

"Have I ever punished you for something _I _have done?" Watson asked. He laughed, shaking his head, and put his hands on Sherlock's shoulders. "You think too little of me, dear fellow."

"I--"

"Men make choices, Sherlock, and they make them with their own minds," Watson told him. "I don't believe in influence or any such excuses. No, my wrongs are on my head and my head alone, and it is only right that I figure a way to solve them."

Watson kissed his forehead, and then went over to the sofa. He lay down, looking faintly troubled, an arm thrown over his eyes. Sherlock hovered over to him, and sat down at his feet. Watson raised his arm from his eyes just a tad, to look down the length of the sofa at him. Sherlock was quiet with thoughtful consideration. Watson was curious as to what he was thinking, but he had long since learned that questioning Sherlock would only lead to annoyance for both of them.

Instead, Watson reached over and rubbed Holmes' shoulder. "Did you really figure me for the despicable sort of person that blames their own evils on another?"

Holmes was grumpy again. "I was already feeling rather victimized, so it did not seem a very far step."

"Poor thing." Watson sat up enough to pull Sherlock onto his chest. He caressed his arm, kissing the top of his head. "But you really did make me feel awful about the book."

Sherlock teetered on the brink of apologizing, but refused. "Hmph."

"Shall we call it even, then?"

"For the moment."

"For the moment!" echoed Watson. He laughed, tousling the man's black hair now. "You are impossibly stubborn, do you know that?"

"I have been told as much."

Watson drew him into a kiss, which became more than a kiss. Sherlock fell out of his sulk, caught up in the man's infectious frenzy. The two paused only long enough for Watson to answer another knock at the door (Mrs. Hudson bringing up a bucket of fresh ice), and then returned to the sofa.

Watson soothed away the faint blush that lingered on his lover's buttocks with an ice cube, and then teased him further with it. Sherlock shook his head, calling him unoriginal, even as he shivered beneath the moist coldness that tingled across his skin. Despite his claim of impatience for trite physical games and sexual experimentation, he always secretly took a thrill in Watson's scintillating motions.

_All in all, I have fallen prey to the blindness of love, _Sherlock admitted to himself as he lay beneath the other man, his entire body shaking, soft sounds escaping his lips. _Well, it was a choice, and an educated one. By the time we first made love, I had already taken full stock of him, and I knew he was trustworthy and true beneath his flaws; he is a man I would easily have as a friend, and that is more important than sexual attraction. I only allowed myself the sexual attraction after (I think it was after?-- No, no, it **was**)._

_As to our being men, well, I find men become quite biased the moment they are introduced to the fairer sex. It is an obstacle that clouds the perception, and I could never have let myself suffer such a distraction. Besides, I simply do not believe in it. I do not believe in the purity of love between man and woman, lest such a thing is defined by subterfuge and ulterior motive. No, no, women have never been for me, and I not for women! Besides! What woman has ever thrilled me so? None, and none ever shall._

**Chapter One**

_**From the personal diaries of John H. Watson, M.D.**_

"_My book did not do the job of cheering Holmes, as I wrote earlier that it might. Holmes found it a romantic farce, never minding the fact that I elaborated not one single bit, and he snubbed my efforts completely. The man is hatefully cynical! I know not whether I lost my temper or regained my sternness, but Holmes swiftly found himself on the wrong end of the book in a way other than he intended; I took him straight over my knees and used the publication to tell a more painful story to his arrogant behind. I was disheartened by his rejection of my attempt to please him. Oh, I know it is simply his nature to be venomous, but I admit that his words hurt me. It was a relief to even the score a bit with a little humiliation. I had forgotten how good it is for him, and have decided to take up the role of his keeper again. If he desires to be treated more like a man, then let him act like a proper man, and then we shall see._

"_First, however, I must set the example and live by my words. My life has fallen into disarray, as previously mentioned, and it is time to clean it up. I am not yet ready to go back into practice, but I do intend to perhaps consult with the hospital or do routine jobs for the justice system. I still feel shaken by the memories of gore from the battlefields, but I do not intend to remain captive to nightmares forever. _

"_I told Sherlock my plans, and he agreed it would be a good thing to do. I suspect he merely would like access to the occasional body to look over or report of murder victim wounds for his criminal studies, but Sherlock cannot help being Sherlock, I suppose. I would humor him, so long as he stays out of trouble (and keeps me out of it as well). _

"_I feel listless as I write this, because the man has gone again. We spent the day lazing about, making love here and there, or just lying together. Then, as evening began to fall, he suddenly asked if I would not mind help with my immediate financial difficulties. I refused a loan from him, but he denied it was this. Not charity, he assured me, only a useful tip from one friend to another. I obliged him. _

"_I have mentioned that Holmes leads an erratic and Bohemian life, frequently going and coming at all kinds of hours. Well, it seems one of his regular stops is a fighting pit where gamblers put their money on one side of the violence. I have been to some of these, but not the one Holmes somehow wormed his way into. He told me that he always knows the winner on certain nights, and if I would come, we could both win some money together. I tentatively agreed, and then Sherlock went off, saying he had arrangements to make first. I try not to be surprised by him, I really do, but the longer I know him, the more the man confounds me, it seems."_

Watson left the diary out this time, leaving the desk before the ink was even dry. He dressed himself, and headed out into the warm, sticky night. It took him a little time, but he reached the purposefully out-of-the-way establishment eventually. Apparently, he had come before Holmes, as there was no sign of the man in the thick crowd of rough men and rowdy women.

Watson began to worry as tickets were signed and bank notes flowed around. Where was Holmes? He checked the address on the paper Sherlock had given him, and knew it was correct. Was Sherlock trying to get even with him for the spanking? Or had something happened to him?

Watson debated leaving and going to look for him. _I'm being a mother hen again, _he chided himself. _But I worry. I worry so much for that man . . . _

At last, he saw Sherlock, but it only furthered his worry. Sherlock was down in the pit, stripped to the waist, and grinning up at him. He rarely smiled at all, but how he beamed with cheeky self-satisfaction! Watson went to the edge of the pit, gripping the dividers so hard his knuckles went white. "Sherlock! What in God's name--"

"I hope you have placed your bets, Watson," Sherlock said.

"Eh?"

"The bets?" Sherlock reminded him flatly.

"Oh, oh, yes-- But!" Watson paused, pressing his lips into a thin line beneath his mustache. This was certainly not the place to fuss over a man, nor the time. He let his breath out in a burst, and told Sherlock, "You had better not lose me my bet, Holmes."

Sherlock gave a short, barking laugh. The concept of losing was beneath him, his attitude said. Watson backed away, and signed a weighty sum of money to his friend.

_It would serve him right to be beaten right out of here, but--_

Watson glanced at the other contender, and cringed for Sherlock. The man was huge, built of solid flesh and even more solid muscle on top of that. Watson looked back at Sherlock, and was pained by how very small and slender he looked. Oh, he was very well-built himself, as he somehow kept himself in excellent shape despite his laziness, but he was at least a foot shorter and two hundred pounds lighter. Watson's fist rested over his mouth, and his eyes fixed intently on Holmes, as if his will alone could shield his friend.

Watson might not have bothered to spare an iota of concern. Sherlock produced the same calculated, whip-fast violence that had taken down the felon at the end of their last case. Watson could not believe his eyes, but the man was hardly touched by the other fighter. His rival's aggravation grew as did his confusion, but Holmes merely seemed to use this to his own advantage. He took a cuff to the jaw, but deflected it enough to save himself dislocation or fracture. The other man did not get off so lightly.

Watson began to realize that this particular location was _not _a regular visit of Holmes', because the crowd was as shocked by the man's prowess as the contender. Doubtless, Holmes frequented this sort of place, but he had found a site where he was unknown to garner the most winnings by being the dark horse. Watson, at the end, collected a small fortune in notes.

"I scarcely know what to say," he told Holmes in the back room where Sherlock had dressed. He was leaning in close to his lover, holding ice to the bruise on his lower left jaw. Though touched by his friend's effort to help him, he found himself only able to scold him. "Do you know how dangerous these places are? You should have told me what you were planning! What if you were injured, how would I have felt?"

"Injured," scoffed Holmes. "Doctor, I have not been seriously injured in a place like this since--"

"You still should have told me!"

"Yes, father."

Watson glowered at him, but the look did not hold. The two chuckled together, and then Watson pulled him into a hug. "That was brilliant, man!" he exclaimed, thumping Holmes on the back. "Simply astounding! I must confess that even I thought there were some bit of luck involved in your fight with the fugitive that time, or that the advantage of his being handcuffed allowed your victory. But this! Incredible, Holmes."

Holmes tried to hide how flattered he was, but his eyes were shining. "There is nothing to it at all, Watson," he said with affected modesty. "The science of violence, whether it be used for crime or battle or what, is quite simple. I have simply studied it and put that knowledge to use. Any fellow could do it. Did you not ask me to teach you last spring?"

"Ah, yes, that's right, I did," Watson said. "I was so busy with the_ book_--" He shot Holmes an accusatory look, but then smiled to soften it. "--that I forgot to take you up on your agreement."

"Is it that?" Holmes asked with a sly smile. "Given your lack of disciplining me from that point all the way to today, I would have thought it was due to a fear of me."

Watson crossed his arms. "Fear of you?" He smirked challengingly, leaning down to bring his face more level with Holmes'. "The man I've become disciplinarian to?"

"By my allowance only, Watson," Sherlock pointed out. He swung on his jacket and stuck his pipe in his mouth. "By my allowance only."

Watson glanced around the room to make certain no one was entering, and stole another kiss. Then, they headed into the pub upstairs, and had drinks to celebrate their winnings. By the time they spilled out into the street, they were arm-in-arm, talking and laughing, even singing.

Outside the door to their rooms, Watson put an arm around Sherlock's waist. He kissed him as he unlocked the door, but before he opened it, Sherlock pushed him away.

"What?"

Sherlock just waved a hand to silence him, and they went in without the ardor. To Watson's shock, there was a man seated on the high-backed chair near the fireplace, who rose upon hearing them enter. Watson reached for his service revolver in his jacket, but Holmes laid a hand on his wrist to stop him. Watson looked at him questioningly, and Holmes gave a short shake of the head.

Watson calmed as Sherlock strode into the rooms, completely fearless, ahead of him. He put his hands in his pockets, and took stock of the man. He tried to use Sherlock's observational deduction methods, but could make nothing but confusion of the man. He was so tall that he looked double Sherlock's height, looming at least six feet six, and had a body of Herculean proportions. He wore such an array of wealth upon this giant figure that he was, for the country's current standards, well past the level of bad taste. He carried a broad-brimmed hat in his hand, and wore on his strong-featured face a black vizard mask which covered the area above the cheekbones. He looked stolen from a painting of exotic decadence arrayed at a ball of some sort, and placed here in 221B Baker Street as a cosmic joke.

"I have told you I would call," the man said, his voice harshly deep and holding a marked German accent. "You have my note, Sherlock Holmes?"

He looked questioningly between the two men. Holmes took charge, striding all the more forward. He seemed a midget before the giant man, though his carriage was that of a ten-foot aristocrat. Watson smiled a little, always amazed by his audacity.

"Pray take a seat," he said. He motioned for Watson. "This is my colleague and occasional partner, Dr. John Watson. Whom do I have the honor to address?"

Watson looked at Holmes as they all sat down. _Now here are his manners, _he thought. _I doubt he is intimidated, he is too foolishly proud for that. Rather, he knows which act to display for what person. Ingenious really, how he saves qualities like a miser hoarding coins and rations them out appropriately._

"I am Count Vonn Kramm, a Bohemian nobleman," the man introduced himself. "You did not in correspondence mention a second party to our discussion. I understand if he is a man you trust, but if not, I should prefer to speak with you in private."

Watson made to stand, but Sherlock reached over and gripped his sleeve. Watson hesitated, frowning at him, but he sat. By now, Holmes knew that if he wanted anything from Watson, this gesture was certain to put it closer to his reach. The man was an absolute slave to obligation.

Watson got the sense he was being manipulated, but did not mind this time. He was excited to be involved in a potential case beside Holmes again, and the huge German-speaker was certainly an intriguing figure. He sat and gave Holmes a discreet nod of the head.

Sherlock's lips tugged very slightly upwards at the corners, but otherwise he gave no sign of emotion. This was the calm, controlled poker face he put on for clients. He turned himself to the nobleman, saying, "The doctor assists me greatly with my work. You have my sworn word that he is of the most trustworthy type. You may say before Dr. Watson anything that you would say to me. If there is a case to be had, then you will take us both, or you will take neither of us."

Watson raised his eyebrows. _One case together, and he trusts me so. I was so busy being his lover that I did not think about our other partnering, but I suppose we may yet build a professional bond. Fascinating. I never would have thought of myself as a detective, or caring what one does for a living. _

_It is to be expected, though. No one in this world fascinates me like Sherlock Holmes._

_**From the personal diaries of John H. Watson, M.D.**_

"_--at which point, the Count agreed to take us both into his confidence. He told us that he represented the House of Ormstein, hereditary kings of Bohemia, which is on the verge of being implicated in a scandal over there. Sherlock seemed drowsy, then impatient, as he somehow seemed aware of all this already. There was very little more talk, save for the meat of the case itself. I should have known Sherlock's manners would not hold for very long, regardless of what client had come to him._

"_It turned out that the man **was **the very king he claimed to represent, another thing Holmes mimicked prescience by already knowing, and that his relationship with a woman named Irene Adler, an 'adventuress' as he called her, was the source of the trouble. The woman was a retired operatic talent, American, now living in London. Holmes explained that the King had written her compromising letters, and wished them back. Holmes waved away his concerns over a 'forged letter written on stolen paper and sealed with an imitation of the royal seal'. However, even my callous lover could not wave off the King's admission of a photograph depicting himself and the young lady together. The photograph had been searched for by the King's men, the woman had been offered her price to sell it back, but there was no sign of the picture, and the woman refused any overture._

"_The King was about to marry the daughter of the Scandinavian king, and Ms. Adler threatened to sully King Ormstein's engagement by sending his betrothed the picture-- through the newspapers! With a tone of awe that bordered on lingering infatuation, the king claimed her threats would stand, as Ms. Adler was a woman with a soul of steel and the mind of the sharpest man. The scandal would end the marriage, and the King would be ruined (his dramatic words, not mine, and a statement Sherlock rolled his eyes at)._

"_Sherlock lazily agreed to the matter, looking half-asleep by then. I had the feeling the case hardly impressed him. We were given carte blanche, as well as the three hundred pounds in gold and seven hundred in notes that Sherlock demanded for 'present expenses'. The notes we had won from the fight suddenly felt trite in my jacket pocket. If anything, it had been a most profitable night._

"_I asked Sherlock how he had come by such an affair, and how he had known so much about it. He was vague for a while, but I managed to seduce him into an explanation. He murmured it practically into my chest as we lay in bed together, so sleepy that I almost thought he was speaking unconsciously._

"_It turns out that all that correspondence through the mail was actually part of another case. He has earned some renown, due largely to his self-promoting claims of genius, and word of him has even reached to Europe. He has rubbed shoulders with visiting nobles, and they have gone back home and spoken highly of him. By mail, he assisted in the solving of very important matters involving aristocrats and nobility. Our client, King Ormstein, heard of these accomplishments, and that was what brought that formidable figure to our door. _

"_I must make it a point to accompany Holmes out more often."_

**Chapter Two**

Sherlock Holmes awoke very early the next morning. It was easy for him to set his mind on a particular time and rise then, if he had strong enough motivation. Watson reached over for him when he climbed out of bed, and he stopped for just a moment. He took the man's hand in his own, running his fingers over the knuckles, touching his lips lightly against his fingers. He set the arm on Watson's chest gently, and climbed over him again. Leaning his arms on Watson's chest, he stared down at his face, and then nuzzled his profile in the man's fair hair.

_This sordid affair of the foppish King's makes me all the more grateful for you, Watson, _he thought as he shut his eyes and let himself indulge in the wasted moments. _You are true and honest, as no woman could ever be. _

Sherlock forced himself away, leaving the bedroom with a quiet shut of the door. He went about his morning routine, and then went digging through a large trunk of clothing. His plan seemed to have been worked out in his dreaming, for upon waking he already knew exactly how he would go about finding and watching this Irene Adler.

The robed, dark-haired man swept behind a changing screen. Stepping out, he was a sandy-haired groom in disreputable clothes, with side whiskers all askew and a face inflamed from drink (well, really from make-up). _No work in the stables these days, _he mused, in character. Chuckling, he headed for the window.

It was Sherlock's custom to never leave via the front door while in disguise. It was sheer paranoia to think anyone would equate him with any of his masterful disguises, but he held to the practice. So, out the window he went, hanging low from the ledge and dropping into storage crates he had paid some street urchins to line up for him there. Sometimes he landed in a sprightly, neat manner, and sometimes he crashed. Today was one of the latter times.

Tumbling out from the mess, he brushed himself off, and then sauntered on his way. He frequented several sites where he could fall in with a similar group of horse tenders, and made idle, unimportant chatter with them. As expected, the freemasonry and sympathies of his (pretended) fellows allowed him to talk of a great length of subjects, least of all inquiring as to Briony Lodge, where Ms. Adler was said to take residence.

At this place, there was more of the same. Sherlock rambled with the best of the grooms, ending up with a pocket of charity (twopence and some spare tobacco) and a wealth of information. His fast-working mind filtered out all the excess data concerning the neighborhood, focusing on everything he heard about Ms. Adler.

_A singer at concerts, drives out at five every day, returns at seven sharp for dinner, _he ticked off the facts in his mind, dropping the tobacco into his long, wooden pipe (not his usual, as he was in disguise). _Only one visitor, but plenty of him: one Godfrey Norton, of the Inner Temple. Dark, dashing, handsome, often calls twice a day. A lawyer. Hm! Friend, lover, hired man? If the last, he might very well have the photograph himself, which would explain why all the king's horses and all the king's men have not ventured to find it again._

Sherlock drew a breath. _Being with Watson is making me fanciful._

He sucked on the pipe, exhaled some puffs of smoke. What to do now? He stared out around the Briony Lodge, a serene and ill-guarded place. A horse near him whinnied, and he looked at it, twice, and then moved out of the stables. He sniffed loftily, wiping his nose on a handkerchief when not in view of the other grooms.

A cab drove up then, and he hastily pocketed the handkerchief. He tromped back to the stables, though watching the cab curiously. A dark and aquiline man dashed out, strikingly handsome, and went inside the house. He had the careless manner of a man at home, brushing past the maid without care or announcement. The cab had apparently been told to wait, and remained stationary.

_Mr. Norton himself, _Holmes surmised. _This is fortunate._

Sherlock sat on an overturned bucket and waited. He waited more. The pipe ran out of tobacco, and he stuck it in his breast pocket. He took out his pocket watch, observed the time. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the same noisy mare seeming to be also checking the time. He shut the watch haughtily, stood, and paced out from the stables again.

Leaning against a gate with his hands pocketed, he wondered if he should not have brought Watson. Reconnaissance work could be done in pairs easily enough if one followed the other at a long length, and you never acknowledged the other excepting in secret. It might have been nice to have someone to discuss his theories with now, perhaps share a laugh with.

_He is more than even a friend or lover, he has become my companion, _Holmes thought. _It is almost a game between us: he doubts me and teases, I prove myself to him. Also, he has a keen sense of adventure which compliments my preference for the more outr__é cases. He is enjoyable company._

_I know Watson would keep an eye out for me, protect me, cover me. For all those reasons and more, I must not come into the habit of bringing him with me for every little part of every little case. Emotionally, I rely upon him in ways I never thought I was capable. To add to that professional dependence would be suicide. What will I do when (not if, but when) he is gone?_

_Love is a sticky business indeed._

Sherlock realized that he was dangerously reflective. He shook his head out of his thoughts, and paced around to stay focused. He glanced in the windows occasionally, and caught glimpses of the man talking excitedly, gesturing wildly. Of Irene Adler, there was no sign.

A half hour passed by before the man was seen again. He was engaged in studying a gold watch, and ran to his waiting cab. He gave directions, adding hastily, "Drive like the devil! Half a guinea if you make it in twenty minutes!"

Sherlock watched all this, his mind memorizing the directions, and looked around in dismay. A neat little landau was driving up now, its coachman looking like he had just been dragged from bed. Sherlock glowered from the shadows. He was disgruntled by his lack of information, as it left him unable to guess at the activities taking place here.

Unexpectedly, one of the stable minders that Sherlock had been rubbing elbows with for information came out from the stables for a break. He nodded to Holmes, "Still here, eh?"

"Bit longer," Holmes said, inflecting the drawl of a drunk into his voice. "Lurvely stables you have here, guv."

"Aye, they are, sir."

Just then, a woman emerged from the house. Her face was flushed, eyes bright, and she darted towards the landau. It had not even pulled up yet before she was in it. "Half a sovereign if you reach the Church of St. Monica in twenty minutes!"

"The lady Irene Adler herself," sighed Holmes' friend from the stables. "Now isn't she just the daintiest thing under a bonnet?"

Sherlock stared at the departing vehicle. In fact, he had noted that she was an exquisite beauty of exceptional taste. He had seen men live for faces of infinitely less delicacy, and knew this woman was one they would die for.

Out loud, he merely replied, "I suppose she is pretty enough. Excuse me."

Sherlock dashed towards an approaching cab. The driver gave him a disdainful sneer, but he jumped in regardless. "The Church of St. Monica, and a sovereign for you if we arrive within twenty minutes!"

The cab flew down the streets, Sherlock thinking fast, his face flushed even beneath the make-up by the exhilaration of it all. He checked his pocket watch, nodded to himself as the time confirmed a theory. _Interesting! The pretty little case takes a turn._

Irene arrived at the Church first. Sherlock saw her standing outside, an artful figure in ivory, and ordered his driver to stop some distance from the building. Better to approach unobserved. He paid the driver, adding the extra fee, and got out. He looked around for a sign of Mr. Norton, but he was not yet arrived. Going around the alleys, he managed to come up quite near and behind the waiting lady, still unobserved.

"Fancy meeting you here, Ms. Adler."

Irene turned, alerted. A rough-looking bloke had come up to her, flanked by an obvious lackey.

"I believe you are mistaken, sir," the woman said. "You will _not _be meeting me, on this day or any other!"

"Come on, miss, you know the price on your 'ead," the man said, sauntering up to her and tipping her face up by the chin. "Give us that king's picture, real nice like. I promise to be good to you if you do."

Sherlock felt a surge of defensive anger, almost starting out of the alley. He checked himself, surprised at this irrational emotion. _Not because of her, _he told himself. _No, I simply don't want anyone to interfere in this case before I've solved it, that's all._

Irene laughed, a cold, high laugh. "I've been asked for the thing all over London since I came here," she said, with a boastful arrogance that rivaled even Holmes' attitude. "Do you really think I would give it to you?"

"Yeah, miss." The man grabbed her by a thin, ivory-gloved wrist. "I rather think you will."

Sherlock started again, but he might not have bothered. Irene twisted her hand out of her glove, and brought a blade no thicker than a letter opener out of it as she did. She whipped around the knife, slashed the man's face, and used his surprised distraction to heave the top of her cane into his mid-section. He doubled over, and she hit him once, twice, and held the knife at his throat.

"You thought wrongfully," she said, her dark eyes alight. Before he straightened up, she yanked his head back down in place by his collar. "You tell His Highness that he did the same."

The lackey had pulled a gun, and Irene only noticed it now. Her confidence froze on her face as she stared over her captive's shoulder at the pistol. Sherlock rushed out of the alley, pushed the man aside. The gun went off, bullet flying off into nowhere. Sherlock twisted his arm around, fracturing it in two places, and threw him aside.

Irene struck the bigger man in a sensitive area, and kicked him away. The two men went running down the street, given up. Irene came up to the disguised Holmes, and he felt his heart skip a beat.

_The fighting, _he told himself. _It affected me, that's all. I should have Watson see if my lifestyle is not having a dire effect on my heart._

"Are you all right there, miss?" he slurred. "Bit of trouble."

"It certainly was," Irene said, still flushed from the fight. "I owe you my life."

"Weren't a bother," mumbled Holmes.

Irene opened her mouth to reply, but a cab drove up then. Godfrey Norton stepped out, striding up to her. She moved away from Sherlock with a small, sheepish smile, and greeted him with a kiss upon the cheek. For no reason he could discern, Sherlock realized he had decided that he did not very much like Mr. Norton.

The two went into the church then, Irene shooting one last glance over her shoulder at Sherlock. Sherlock lingered, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, and thought. He slunk over to the side of the building, wiped sweat from his face with a hand. The summer heat had returned in full force.

Godfrey was suddenly on the street again. He looked around, spotted Sherlock, and rushed up to him. "Ah, my good fellow! Would you be so kind?"

Sherlock had not said a word before he found himself being led towards the church's doors. "Be so kind as to what?" he asked suspiciously, holding back.

"No more than three minutes, I promise you," Norton said, dragging him along. "Come on, there's a good man. It won't be legal unless we have a witness, you see."

Sherlock was coerced up to the altar, where stood Irene waiting with a glowing smile on her face. He glanced around the church, and fell silent. The clergyman resumed his gentle recital, and Godfrey took his place before Irene.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, removing his hat and putting it in his hand. He tried to look respectable in a place he found ludicrous, and tried to agree with solemnity to things he knew nothing about. No one seemed to care if his replies were somewhat lacking. As for Holmes, he busied himself by noting how church ceilings seemed to be structured with the purpose of dwarfing humanity in the shadow of the Almighty. He felt very small and very misplaced.

Only Irene avoided being lost in the place. She was a vision that seemed carved out of the holy heights of the Above, illuminating the church with her pure beauty. Sherlock found his eyes had settled upon her, and every now and then, hers would settle on him. In those moments, the detective almost fancied Mr. Norton gone, and the two of them being alone.

_Rubbish! _his mind cried indignantly. _Come now, Holmes, you're smarter than that!_

Sherlock drew a breath, lifted his face, and let the place seep out of his mind. _I am sexually attracted to her, and why not? She is lovely. Arguing such a simple thing only strengthens it, so I admit it freely. I am not an average, simpering male caught in the spell of an attractive female. It is simply another fact, and an unimportant one, nothing more._

It was all over with quickly. Godfrey shook his hand vigorously, thanking him. Irene gave his cheek a kiss, and handed him a sovereign. With that, they were off.

Sherlock followed them onto the street. They separated, and he overheard their arrangements. This time, he followed neither one, going on to make some arrangements of his own.

The sovereign remained in his hand, warm and flipped round and round his palm, the entire route.

**Chapter Three**

Watson woke up long after Sherlock had gone. He stretched, reached over for his partner, and found the bed half empty. After he was cleaned and dressed, he found the rest of the rooms just as empty. With a sigh, he went down to take his breakfast alone with a newspaper. _So much for accompanying Holmes more often!_

He was back upstairs too quickly, and found himself at a loss without his lover. He realized that even when Sherlock was not speaking to him, he enjoyed simply watching him. The man would go back and forth, always with something or other to do, and he would contemplate him. The rooms felt empty without the subject of his curiosity.

Watson took to pacing, troubled by how deeply he was connected to Sherlock. _I have relied upon myself my entire life, and now I cannot seem to be without him. What a wreck the war had made of me! Sherlock has been the only person to ease the effects of it. I never dream of the battlefield anymore, not when I lie with him. Hardly a husband in the country is as enraptured by his wife as I am by Holmes!_

Watson was musing over this, smiling a little, when he came to the shelves where Sherlock kept his narcotics. The smile faded from his face slowly. No matter how he tried to ignore them, he remained disgusted by Holmes' filthy habit. His medical intuition reacted as violently to the injections as if Sherlock were sipping poison.

_I am a fool to care for someone like him, _he thought as he continued his pace. _He does not **allow **me to care for him. Perhaps it is my fault. Perhaps I should have stayed the course of being his disciplinarian. But he is a grown man! Can't he simply listen to my reason? He troubles me so . . . _

Watson sank into a chair, glanced at the clock. It was fast approaching evening. _Where has he gone off to for so long? He could have at least left a note for me, the inconsiderate brat._

The door opened then, and Watson glanced up. An unsavory man in the dress of a typical groom entered, a tray of food in his arms. Watson gaped at him as he shut the door behind himself and brought the tray to the table between the chairs at the fireplace.

"Holmes?"

Watson discerned the man only by the eyes and the little satisfied smile on his lips. Even he, used to Sherlock's gift for costume, was impressed. He said as much, and saw Sherlock's ears turn pink. How he loved flattery . . .

"The stage lost a prize when I chose my profession, doctor," Sherlock said. "Excuse me."

He went to his rooms, then the powder room. When he returned, he was clean-shaven and his normal, dashing self. He straightened his shirt fussily as he set himself down and tore into his food.

It was some minutes, and then Holmes inquired, "Watson, do you have any objections to breaking the law?"

"None. Why do you ask?"

"I'll need your cooperation this evening," Sherlock explained. He took a long drink from his glass of beer. "You would not mind risking arrest?"

"Not if the cause is good."

"Oh, the cause is excellent."

"Then, I am your man," Watson said. He took a bit of Sherlock's meal, chewed thoughtfully. "I am quite surprised to hear you ask my consent. I would have expected you to lead me to my doom without so much as a warning."

"I would," Sherlock agreed, "but in this case, I don't want anything so tawdry as your ridiculously unfair punishments to mar my triumph in the matter of the King's scandal."

"Ridiculously unfair?" Watson echoed wryly. He sighed, shaking his head. "Anyway, I take it you have spent the morning on the case?"

"Indeed," Sherlock said, and he burst into a laugh.

Watson frowned. Sherlock rarely laughed. He seemed in very good spirits, almost giddy.

"Have you found the picture then?"

"What?"

Watson raised his eyebrows. Sherlock _never _missed a word. "The picture of the King and the lady?"

"Oh, no, not yet," Sherlock said, waving a hand in dismissal.

It was amazing how he treated the item on which the entire case hinged so lightly, Watson thought. "You found the lady, however?"

"I did."

Watson crossed his arms, leaned over the table at Holmes. "And did the kiss have anything to do with your assurance of success?"

Sherlock met his eyes. "Kiss? What kiss?"

"Aha! You thought I had missed the faint impression of the lip-mark made by a woman's rouge, didn't you?" Watson said smugly. "Well, you are not the only one capable of analytic observation, Sherlock Holmes."

Watson pinched the cheek where the mark had been.

"Ow, _ow_," complained Sherlock, hitting his hand away. "Do not do that, Watson." He rubbed the spot, though his mind lingered on Irene's touch rather than Watson's. His eyes stared nowhere for a second, and then he cleared his throat. As he resumed his meal, he said, "A kiss from the bride, nothing more."

Watson shook his head in puzzlement. "Bride? What? I thought it may be from the infamous Ms. Adler?"

"It was," Sherlock said. "I saved her marriage."

"Marriage!" exclaimed Watson. "Would you care to explain, or are you having much fun being cryptic at my expense?"

"Do not glare at me that way. You take things much too seriously," chuckled Sherlock. He drank from the glass again. Then, "I will begin at the beginning for your benefit. Not everyone can work their way backwards from the end to the start the way I can."

Watson's lips tightened, but he did not rise to the barb. In fact, he was hardly even annoyed, being so distracted by his friend's strange manner. _Sherlock is usually cheered by a case, but I have never seen him quite __**this **__jovial, _he thought. _Is it imminent success that excites him, or something else?_

_Or might it be some__**one**__ else?_

"Go on, then," Watson encouraged him. "Let's hear it."

Sherlock recounted his morning adventures to Watson, step by step. He purposefully left out the matter of the fight outside the church, but otherwise told it as it happened. Watson took note of how many times he mentioned Irene Adler's beauty; "the daintiest thing in a bonnet", he called her once, and at another point mentioned she had a face "men would die for". Never before had Watson heard him speak favorably about a female, and here he was practically gushing.

"It was the thought of myself standing witness to something so foreign as marriage that made me laugh," he explained at the end.

"Yes, the idea of a naughty boy like you inside a church alone is quite hilarious."

Sherlock gave Watson that devilish half-grin of his.

"As for this woman, you seem quite charmed by her," Watson said. "Might she be the first woman to stake a claim on your cold heart?"

"No, no, of course not," Sherlock said loftily. "Women are wholly uninteresting creatures."

"That is a terrible thing to say," Watson scolded. "Shame on you."

"It is the truth," Sherlock insisted. "You see, most men are creatures of the unobservant eyes, they are pleased by the first glimpse at things. A fair face, blushing cheeks, colored lips and curled hair, that is all it takes to satisfy the average man."

"And what is wrong with liking those things?"

"It is like looking at a mirror and seeing only the glass," Sherlock said. "But I see through those commonplace deceptions a woman uses to seduce. I see beneath the make-up and the delicate smile, past the luminous eyes and lacy lashes, through the gowns and gloves and what-have-you."

Watson was amused. "You see through womens' clothing, do you?"

"You know what I mean," Sherlock said in a prickly tone. "Now, Watson, what do you suppose is beneath all those elegant layers of lies?"

"Enlighten me, Holmes."

"More lies!" Sherlock told him. "They are a scheming, deceptive lot with no concern for anything or anyone save their own agendas and themselves. Control, Watson, what they want is control, and they will take it if you let them. I find their manipulation boring and would not deal with it. Oh, I don't blame them for it, mind you, men make it so very easy for them, but I won't have it for myself."

"You sound like you hate women."

"I do not hate them, I simply dislike and distrust them," Sherlock said. He smiled, reaching across the table to put a hand on Watson's. "Now that I have you, Doctor, I have no use for them, either."

Watson was surprised by the affection. Sherlock rarely reached out so sweetly, unless he had an ulterior motive or was being complimented. It was nice to see his cold little heart warmed over.

Regardless, Watson teased, "Because you use me instead?"

"You put it quite vulgarly for a romantic."

Watson laughed, coming around the table to stand beside Holmes. He leaned over him, kissing the top of his head. "Sure you want to give up on the fairer sex so soon?" he asked, though as he said it he held Sherlock against himself. "You seem to like this Irene Adler."

"She is lovely, and what of it?" Sherlock asked. He looked up at Watson, reached an arm up to touch his face. "Look at this mess she has made for our King. Would you like that to happen to the finest mind in London?"

Watson tried to hide his smile behind his mustache.

"Of course you would, just to see me tripped up," Sherlock observed, getting to his feet. "Well, it will never happen, not to me. And if you are tempted to trip me up yourself, do not bother entertaining the thought." He smirked, smoothing his hands over Watson's shirt. "We both know such a thing would be beneath you."

Watson held him close. How very cute Sherlock was when being amorous. It was a pleasant change.

"You are correct in that assumption," Watson said. "I would never use love as a weapon."

"Yes, because you are a friend before a lover. You want nothing from me besides my company." Sherlock embraced him, tightly pressed to his chest now. "You are a true, good man, Doctor."

"Mm. Pity it takes an attraction to a dangerous female to make you admit it."

Sherlock looked up at him with a scowl, and Watson laughed. He ran a hand through the man's hair and bent down to kiss him.

"Mmm, but—mmph—Doctor, I must be on my way," Sherlock said, tearing himself away. He took a deep breath, shook himself out of it. "I have preparations to make."

"And as to my law-breaking part in this?"

"Follow me whilst I change, I'll explain it to you."

Sherlock laid out his plan, though he was very sparse with details, in his rooms. Watson was somewhat disappointed at how very small his part in it would be, but figured that he was at least invited to come this time. _The mighty Holmes deigns to share his brilliant scheming with me, _he thought sarcastically. _Bah, who am I kidding? It is an honor. I would die before letting him know it, of course._

Sherlock gradually transformed himself into a plain, mild-faced clergyman. Watson could not believe the earnest, benevolent face beneath that broad-brimmed hat was his lover; he was so completely transformed that he seemed to be possessed by another soul.

"Your height!" Watson exclaimed when Sherlock passed him. "How are you so tall?"

Sherlock lifted the hem of the baggy pants. "I had these shoes made for me." He took one off, having to balance on the other foot solely. "To the naked eye, they appear to be a normal shoe, however they are constructed with a lift of three inches on the inside of the sole. Added to the two inches of the normal heel, I am practically your height."

"Clever," Watson murmured.

Sherlock put the shoe back on, having to lean a hand on Watson for balance. "You see, Ms. Adler already saw me this morning," he explained. "I doubt she would associate that unemployed groom with this kindly Nonconformist, but just to be certain she does not, I have changed a thing no one has ever suspected can be changed without stilts."

Sherlock stood before Watson, and for once their faces were level. He grinned, and held the man in a passionate kiss. The religious guise bothered neither of the men; even Watson found it merely humorous.

Sherlock broke the kiss hastily, patting Watson's shoulder. "Now to work, Dr. Watson," he said, face flushed. "To work!"

It was a quarter past six when they arrived at the Briony Lodge, the lamps just being lit around the city. Watson found the place just as Holmes had detailed it, though it seemed a rather less private place than he expected. There was a group of shabby men smoking and laughing in a corner, a scissor-grinder at his wheel, two guardsmen flirting with a nurse, and several lounging young men in good clothing. It was quite the social hour, Watson remarked. Holmes smiled, and said nothing.

The two stationed themselves just apart from the crowd, by the building. Sherlock stood primly as any clergyman would, with the occasional solemn nod of the head, and if Watson had not been close enough to hear his words, he would have sworn he was preaching some gospel truth to a skeptic.

"You will follow my orders to the letter, won't you, doctor?"

"Yes, yes, of course."

"No matter what may happen?"

Watson was uneasy, but he said slowly, "Yes."

"Trust me, dear fellow, trust me."

Watson tightened his lips. This did not sound well. "What exactly do you intend to accomplish here tonight, Holmes?"

"Simple," Sherlock said. "Due to the photograph being a cabinet, its size would not allow the lady to keep it on her person. Besides, the risk of having it stolen should she be searched would be too great. Keeping it with a lawyer or banker would leave the possibility of bribery open, and women tend to do their own secreting, anyhow. Therefore, the picture must be kept in her home."

"But the King said it had been searched, Holmes."

"Yes."

"Twice."

"I am aware of that, but it is the only choice left," Sherlock said. "No matter how unlikely and all that. You do remember what I told you?"

"I know," sighed Watson. "When all paths prove logically false, the one remaining consistent, no matter how improbable, must be the truth."

"Something to that effect," Holmes said distractedly, looking down the road. "Anyway, it is my intention to have her show me where it is."

Watson crossed his arms. "And how do you propose to do that?"

"By sheer genius, Watson," Sherlock said honestly. "Ah, but here she comes. Follow my orders to the letter, Watson."

"Yes."

"To the letter!"

"I said I would!"

"Good man."

What followed was an interesting scene. One of the loafers dashed forward to open the door of the sharp little landau, in the hopes of earning a coin. Another elbowed him away, in hopes of the same. The two got into a violent scuffle, and the two guardsmen sided with the first loafer, while the scissor-grinder sided with the other. The lady stepped out of the carriage, and was nearly struck by the blows swinging out. She looked confused, but oddly with a touch of bemusement upon her lovely face. Sherlock, in his clergyman's disguise, broke through the fight to shield the lady then, but cried out and clutched his face. Watson squinted his eyes. Funny, he had not seen a blow land on his friend.

He fell to the ground, blood running freely down his face. Watson gave a start, but did not interfere, as he had been instructed not to. He hoped it was one of Sherlock's tricks.

The fight broke up, and the better half of the crowd rushed to help the lady and the injured clergyman. Irene had rushed up the steps in alarm, but now she stopped with a hand on the door, looking back down at the injured man. Watson took a look at her then, and judged her to be truly winning. Her superb silhouette in the doorway was framed by the lights from the house, and he could see how she had once graced the stage with her poise and beauty. If anything, he thought, Holmes had good taste.

"Is the poor gentleman much hurt?" she cried down to the crowd.

Several voices chimed, "He is dead, madame!"

"No, no!" Watson piped up from his obscure corner nearby. "There is life in him yet!"

"He'll be gone before you can get him to a hospital!" another added.

"What a very brave fellow," Irene Adler murmured as she came down the steps. The crowd parted for her, and their sympathies towards the injured party faded in their curiosity of this pretty woman.

"Those ruffians might have had the lady's purse had he not interfered," a serving girl commented. "They were a proper gang."

"Ah, the man is breathing yet," said one man that had knelt beside Holmes. He looked up at Irene. "Should we bring him in, miss?"

"Certainly," Irene said. "Bring him to the sitting room. There is a comfortable sofa there. Hurry, please. I owe this man my life."

_For the second time today, _Sherlock mused. As he was lifted up and led inside, he caught Watson's eye. The corner of his mouth twitched, and Watson let out a sigh of relief. He was not hurt, apparently, just playing his game with gusto.

Watson stationed himself outside the sitting room windows. They were shut and the curtains only partially drawn. He could see Irene pass back and forth, but the sofa with Holmes was out of view. He heard only murmurs of conversation no matter how hard he strained. With a sigh, he settled by the windows, waiting. Holmes had assured him he would give signal for the next step in the scheme, and so the doctor waited. _It is in your capable hands, Holmes. It always is._

Inside, Irene leaned over Sherlock, handing him a glass of water and wiping away the blood. He took the monogrammed handkerchief from her and held it in place against his "injury", lest she find out there was no source of the flow beneath. He drank the water, thanking her. She smiled, swept away. He caught the scent of her perfume, a poignantly crisp, dreamy floral scent.

"You gave me quite a fright, rushing in to my defense that way," Irene said, removing her jacket, hat, and gloves. She handed them to the maid waiting at the door, then waved her away. She shut the doors, leaving them alone. "I would have been loath to see a man die in my defense when-- Well."

Sherlock knew what she had been about to confess: that she was quite capable of defending herself. She smiled sheepishly at him, then came back to his side. The lady seated herself primly on a chair beside the sofa, and looked at him intently. She had a piercing quality to her eyes that Sherlock had never seen in a woman before.

"It was only a purse," she said, "nothing worth losing a good man over."

"It was not the purse I thought to protect, my dear," Sherlock said. He had pitched his voice higher than his usual, giving him a mousy, fussily eager manner of a religion-peddler.

Irene smiled, politely embarrassed. "I had forgotten the chivalry of London men," she said. "I was assisted by another good Samaritan earlier, you see. Quite a smaller one, though." She laughed.

Sherlock faltered for a moment. Was that a hint? Had she seen through his two disguises? He peered into her eyes. No, no, of course she hadn't. Her attitude was that of someone thoroughly surprised by coincidence.

"Never say the Lord does not tend his flocks," he said. "Though, if I may be so bold, I must say you have had a trying day, my dear."

"Indeed," sighed Irene. She glanced at the window, eyes far away. "I have."

It was funny that she did not note the wedding, nor even think to touch the ring upon her finger. Newlyweds normally mentioned it at any given moment, especially women.

"Is there a specific trial that troubles you, madame?"

Irene shook her head. She stood, going over to peer out the window. Holmes hoped Watson had the sense to stay just beneath the ledge and out of view.

"Are you ever lonely, Mr.--?"

"Harker."

"Mr. Harker?"

"One is never alone when they walk with God, dear," Sherlock said. He took up some bandages and began fixing one to his nonexistent wound. "He brings us to what we need."

Irene turned back to him. "All that we need?" Her tone was almost challenging. "Even a person we might need?"

"Did He not bring me to you?"

Irene opened her mouth, and Holmes knew she was about to admit that she had not needed the pitiful defense of the clergyman at all. She shut her red lips again, and looked rather sullen. Trapped by her lies! Sherlock had to stifle a chuckle.

"Yes, yes, He did, I suppose," Irene mused softly. She came back to sit on the chair beside him, gazing at him. "You have very lovely eyes, Mr. Harker."

_No usage of religious title, _Sherlock noted. _Not once. Interesting, though not unexpected. She is, after all, a scandalous woman, and those are rarely very God-fearing (or, they are God-fearing to the point of total avoidance of the subject). This one is the former, judging from her brushes with cynicism and scorn. How very interesting. A woman too clever to be swayed by the church._

"I—Thank you, my dear," Holmes said uncertainly. He almost fell out of character under those eyes, and mentally shook himself back to reality.

Irene took the dirty kerchief and bowl of water away, set it aside on a table. "Would you like a drink? Some brandy, perhaps?"

"Yes, please."

Irene poured them both glasses and sat again on the chair.

"Forgive me, I do not mean to pry, but I have always been curious," Ms. Adler said. "It seems an isolated life."

"Not at all," Sherlock said. "My faith is all the companionship I need."

"Man does not live by faith alone, sir."

"You put the emphasis on the wrong side of it," chuckled Holmes. "It is by bread that man does not live solely by."

"Yes, but which is the more striking urge, the one to eat or the one to pray?"

Sherlock was greatly fascinated by her views, though he cleared his throat in his affected fussy manner. "Well, even I cannot fight the science of the body, of course."

"Exactly," Irene seized on the point. "And why should we? Are we really born such filthy vessels of sin?"

"It is written, you know."

"I know, but they are still words," Irene said, insinuating that she put little stock in unproven statements (_How like me, _Holmes thought). "I rather like this vessel, I'll have you know."

"I am not disapproving of it," Sherlock said, bordering on the very brink of becoming a Lothario rather than a holy man. "After all, did I not save it—child?"

"You did," smiled Irene. She moved the chair closer to him. "I do hope you do not feel insulted by my questions. I am in a pensive mood today, it seems."

"I do not mind at all," Sherlock replied. "I enjoy a challenge. It is easy to win the hearts of men, and women, already open, after all."

"I suppose it would be," Irene mused. She put a finger to her bottom lip, thinking. "As for what I was saying, if God fashioned these bodies of ours, why should we not trust them?"

Sherlock sat up a little, leaning closer to her. "I did not imply we should not, my dear."

"By denying our needs, do we not show distrust? Would it be respectful to ourselves to starve to death?" Irene said. She spoke in a gentle tone that kept her words from being incisively sharp. "Not only food, Mr. Harker, but other things. Many needs, and desires."

Sherlock leaned all the closer. He could not help himself from taking her hands in his, which sent a heated thrill through his skin. Fortunately, it was not an out of character gesture for a kindly, sympathetic clergyman.

"What do you desire, madame?"

He truly wanted an answer. She seemed the melancholy damsel, and yet she had just been married! To boot, she was blackmailing a King in a most disgraceful way. Sherlock could not figure her one way or the other. Most women had clear goals, usually revolving around finding a suitable husband, but this lady seemed restless, seeking. She had a mind, a good one, and she wanted to do something with it. What did she want to do? Find fortune? Fame? If not love, then what?

"Perhaps desire has nothing to do with it," she said. "Have you never wanted to do something out of curiosity alone? Simply to know how it might feel? How it might turn out?"

Sherlock stifled a smile.

"I suppose you wouldn't--"

"No, you would be surprised," Sherlock interrupted, leaning forward all the more. Her perfume was a wispy, pleasing scent around him. "I have been led down the path of temptation like any other person, at times just to feel the fire . . . burn beneath my feet."

"Hmm, that _is _a surprise."

Their faces were so close he could almost feel her soft skin against his own. The hot summer air encroached upon them, further stirring the blood. Her face was dewy from it, and a curled strand or two of her hair artfully graced the sides of her face.

Sherlock cursed his detailed mind. He took in every inch of her, but these facts had the effect on his brain of alcohol. He was drowning in the enigma of her mind, enraptured by her face. He noted the slightly parted lips and softly heaving breast before him, and felt urges he thought he had trampled out of himself long ago.

Sherlock forced himself to turn away. He bowed his head, feigning a cough. "Oh, my dear, would you mind cracking the windows?" he inquired. "It has gotten stuffy."

"Of course," Irene said, standing. She went over and opened it. "Better?"

He beckoned for her to return to his side, and she obeyed.

"Where were we?" he asked.

"Temptation," said she.

"Ah, right," Sherlock said. He had to clear his throat to retain the squeaky pitch of his character. "It is a trial we all must face, and a sore one. It is best, my lady, that we admit our failings and curb them as stringently as we can." The words reminded him of Watson, and he allowed himself a smile, passing it off as a kindly one. "Otherwise, we are lost."

_Three minutes._

"Of course you are right," Irene said, obviously in an effort to appease him. She patted his hand. "I am no heathen, you understand. I simply trust God's infinite wisdom more than the written scriptures sometimes seem to."

"You are an intelligent and modern woman," Sherlock said genuinely. "No one can fault you for those qualities."

"Thank you."

_Two minutes._

Irene stood and went to refill their glasses of brandy. Sherlock glanced at the clock, but only until she turned back to him. She handed him another glass, and sipped from her own. He turned the glass around in his hand, but did not drink.

_One minute._

"Are you no longer thirsty, Mr. Harker?"

"I--"

"Fire!"

Irene and Sherlock looked at once towards the window. Thick smoke was wafting in from outside. Sherlock recognized the voice. _Watson, you've done well. Only half a minute early, and completely unseen. You will make a fine accomplice for me yet._

Outside, Watson lost himself in the commotion of the crowd. Men were bustling around, trying to find a flame that did not exist. Turning around a corner of the building, he was surprised to find Holmes. Sherlock took his arm in his own, and led the two of them fast away from the Briony Lodge.

"You did very nicely, Doctor," Sherlock complimented him as they turned onto quiet streets. He removed his hat and spectacles, regaining some of his true appearance. "It could not have been better."

"Exactly what did I do?" Watson asked. "What did _you _do? Do you have the photograph?"

"I know where it is." Sherlock smiled arrogantly. "She showed me where it was, as I said she would."

"I wish you would show me where I am, Holmes," Watson grumbled, pressing his hat down on his head. "I haven't the foggiest."

"Still in the dark?"

"I figured the blood was false, clapped to your face by a painted palm when you clutched it," Watson said, frowning in thought. "The crowd was gathered by you, was it not?"

"It was."

"Who were all those-- Never mind." Watson shook his head. "I would rather not know."

"What else have you deduced?"

"Nothing!" Watson exclaimed. "I am at a loss as to the rest of it. What went on in the house?"

Sherlock paused, and Watson saw a telltale blush on his face. It passed quickly, however, and Holmes began a fast, remarkably vague account of being bandaged and given drink.

"Then, you threw the harmless smoke pipe inside, almost precisely five minutes after the window opened, as I instructed," Sherlock concluded. "Women instinctively rush for their most valuable possessions when they think their house is on fire, one of their only sensible reactions, I would say. The married woman would reach for her baby, the single woman for her jewels."

"And Ms. Adler, for the photograph."

"Precisely," smiled Holmes. "She is an intelligent woman, but still a woman, and the hubbub you created was enough to shake nerves of steel. She performed beautifully for me. The photograph is in a recess behind a sliding panel just above the right bell-pull. I even glimpsed it as she drew it out. I then cried that it was a false alarm, and she replaced it."

"I would have expected you to have taken it right then."

"I would have, but the coachman had drawn up, and was watching everything keenly," Sherlock said, not seeming worried by the delay. "I'm right at the end of it, and dare not risk it all now."

"Besides?"

Sherlock's dark eyes were gleaming. "Besides, I would not pass up the spectacle of calling upon our daring actress with the King himself beside us," he said. "He might want to regain it with his own hands. You will accompany us, of course?"

"I would not miss it for the world."

Sherlock smiled, squeezing Watson's arm in his hand. They had reached Baker Street by now, and came up the steps to the door.

"Goodnight, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock whipped around, scanned the streets. The voice seemed to have come from a young man passing by, but he had now crossed and could not be called back. Sherlock turned around in a circle on the step, his eyes darting this way and that.

"What the deuce?"

"A friend?" Watson inquired.

"I have heard the voice before, but no," Sherlock murmured. He stayed in silent thought for a minute, and then shrugged. "Oh, never mind. It is late, and I am exhausted."

Watson put an arm around Sherlock's waist. "Not too exhausted, I hope?"

Sherlock laughed, unlocking the door. They had barely gotten up to their room before they were at each other, all grasping motions and sultry kisses.

"Wait, wait. Mmmm—one moment, I said!"

They were on the sofa, Watson lying back with Sherlock atop him, fervently tearing off his clothes. Sherlock's fingers laced through the shirt's buttons with ease, and then he looked at his lover. "Yes? Wait for what?"

Watson sat up, though he kept Sherlock in his arms. "After every encounter with Ms. Adler, you seem to have something to prove with me," he said. "First, that heartfelt admission of love and appreciation for me that was so strikingly uncharacteristic of you. Now, all this excessive passion. Tell me, have you fallen for the lady?"

Sherlock scowled. "Don't be silly," he sniffed. "I told you how love is for the common man, and women--"

"Are deceptive, scheming harpies, I know," muttered Watson. "But you clearly feel something for this woman."

"Petty physical attraction, that is all. Now, if we can just get back to--"

Watson stopped him from kissing his neck by tipping his face up to his own by the chin. "You're lying."

"You're jealous."

Watson considered it. "Perhaps," he admitted, "though I had not thought of it till now."

"I completely understand," Sherlock said with mock sympathy. He straddled the man's waist, nestling his face into his neck. "How empty your life was before I came into it. How lost you would be without me."

"And here I was thinking I was the one that took you in hand," Watson said. "Regardless, I would not stop you from pursuing a woman of your liking. It might be good for you to have a wife to keep you on your toes and in check."

"You already do those things admirably, Doctor."

"Ah. So, I play the role of your wife, do I?"

"Your words, not mine."

Watson laughed, lightly giving the other man's bottom a few spanks. "You are impossible," he said. "Why not simply admit that you have found a woman you might love, hm? There is no shame in it."

"There is for me."

"A woman engaging enough to win your curiosity is bound to be a rarity."

"Watson, leave it alone," Sherlock grumbled, blushing deeply. He continued to kiss the man's neck, trying desperately to distract him from the annoying conversation.

"If anything, an affair with her might--"

"Might what!" Sherlock exploded. He climbed off of Watson, drawing a breath to collect himself. He ran his hands through his hair, paced, and then turned on Watson again. "Might get rid of me? Is that it, Watson?"

Watson was dismayed by his sudden fury. "That is not what I mean, Sherlock. You should know better than that."

"What I know is that you are an intelligent man obsessed with overcoming his worth," Sherlock said angrily. "You and I are of a kind, Watson, a special kind of man in this world of foppish sentimentalists. Yet you insist on denying it!"

Watson watched him steadily, sitting up on the sofa.

"Oh, Watson, don't you see?" Sherlock groaned. He came up to the man, took his face in both hands. "You insist upon manners that you know are insipid. You object to my lifestyle constantly. You still harbor regrets over not having a proper wife, even after being so happy with me. Why? Why are these things so important to you? Simply because they are things you have been taught to believe a man _should _uphold?"

"Did you ever think that perhaps they were merely facets of my personality?"

"Even worse," grumbled Holmes, pacing away from him. "You have so much potential, Watson, yet you waste it with your silly romantic ways."

Watson stood. "I am the way I _wish _to be, Holmes," he said. "I find it highly patronizing and bigoted of you to judge what morals and sentiments are worthwhile, and what are, as you say, a 'waste'. What in God's name makes you perfect enough to look down on me?"

Sherlock waved a hand. "Now you're being sensitive."

"I am not being sensitive!" Watson yelled at him. "Do you realize you use that excuse every single time I object to being insulted by you?" He came up to Sherlock, following his pacing. "You of all people should understand how it feels to be patronized. Does the Yard not treat you as insignificantly as you treat me?"

"That is different," Holmes muttered. "I do not deserve it."

"And I deserve to be looked down on?"

Holmes stopped, looked up at him, then continued his pace. He said nothing. Watson took him by the shirt and shook him.

"Are you going back to your cold-blooded airs now?" he asked. "Where is all that love and appreciation?"

"I do love and appreciate you, Doctor," sighed Sherlock. He reached up to touch the man's face. "But you are trying to have me confess to things I do not feel for that woman. Don't you think I have reason to be suspect of your motives?"

"I am not trying to get rid of you through Irene Adler," Watson assured him. "Trust me, I have become more attached to you than you even realize. God knows why, you're so hateful at times!"

"Let me remind you then."

Sherlock pulled his face down into a kiss. Watson felt his anger drift away like so many clouds across the sky, insubstantial and out of reach. Sherlock felt it go out of him, and was relieved.

"I only want you to be happy, Holmes," Watson said, stroking the man's hair. "What I was trying to say was not to let me stand in your way if pursuing Irene is what would make you happiest."

"It's not."

Watson fell back on the sofa, pulling Sherlock down with him. He looked at the face above him, noting how roguish Holmes looked with his hair fallen over his forehead. There was a vulnerability about him during these intimate moments, so raw and open that it was almost painful to see.

That was when it struck Watson why Sherlock was so reluctant to even mention the idea of going after Irene: he was scared. The idea of having his ego wounded by a woman, being betrayed by love, terrified him.

Watson rushed into a frenzied kiss to hide the sympathy in his eyes. He thought back to those first moments, how he had seen the fear in the detective as he ordered him to get their first kiss over with. His mind traced over the painful memory of whipping him, and how very fragile Sherlock had felt in his arms in the afterglow of punishment. He scorned feelings because they hurt you, distracted you, left you susceptible to any abuse.

For some reason, he trusted Watson, and had let him in. _Look how that turned out, _Watson thought. _For a noble purpose or not, I **did **hurt him, and I will hurt him again someday, just as he continues to hurt me with his words. Pain is inevitable in love. I find it a bitterly sweet thing, because it is so very human and so very unselfish to hurt over another. Sherlock, however, must find it absolutely repellent, because it makes no logical sense. He is a man that values control above all: Look at how his profession itself tries to fit something so chaotic as crime into neat little boxes of logic. He craves order in the world, or perhaps **to order **the world. It is when he has no case to organize into a solution that he lets the chaos overtake him, drowning himself in it to block out all the rest. _

_I never should have pressed him about Irene. Women are an unfathomable mystery, a masterpiece of emotions, the summation of desires, and thus represent the ultimate chaos. Of course Holmes would never willingly follow into that. It is a miracle he even allows himself this relationship of ours. But then, I also try to seek order, so perhaps he finds me a stabilizing presence. Who can say?_

_All I know is that I am the most fortunate one. After I was left alone most of the day, after I sensed his attraction to another, after I thought he really had been wounded in the fight—Through all this, I have come to the decision that I cannot live without him. _

Watson gripped Sherlock's shoulder to still a trembling. "Dear," he murmured, breathing heavily. He leaned his face down to kiss the man just beneath the base of the neck. "Shh, it is all right." Then, he whispered in his ear, "I won't ever betray you."

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at him. He smiled faintly, though his eyes remained sad. "I could almost believe you, Doctor."

"Believe what you will," Watson said, stroking his cheek. "You are a believer in the plain facts, yes? I shall weave you a solid chain of evidence that you will never be able to deny."

Sherlock smiled, leaning his head down again on the sofa. He said nothing, but Watson could feel his reserved happiness. More promises . . .

_Well, let them stand, _Watson thought. _This time, I make them with no doubt in my mind. _

_I love him._

**Chapter Four**

The next morning, Sherlock was gone again before Watson woke up. Watson peered into the adjacent room before even freshening up, and was relieved to see the man was merely on the telephone. Watson left him to it, going about his morning routine as usual.

After dressing in his bedroom, the doctor turned and glanced at the writing desk which held his diary in the top drawer. _I have been neglecting it since this little case started, _he thought. _It has only been a day, but it feels like an age, so much has gone on. _

He unlocked the drawer, removed the diary. He opened it to a blank page, glanced longingly at the pen and inkwell. _There is so much to detail. I have not even described Ms. Adler, the poor, fair creature against which we conspire. I am mildly jealous of Sherlock's feelings for her, but still I find myself feeling like a cur for scheming so shamelessly to expose her. I would ask Holmes to let it alone, but he is like the wolf that smells blood: he will not be satiated until he's hunted her down to the end. No matter how he is interested in her, she is still a target before anything else._

Watson had just picked up the pen when Sherlock barged into the room. He strode up to Watson, took the pen from his hand and replaced it on the desk. "No time for that now, Doctor," he said briskly, hooking his arm in Watson's. "It promises to be a busy morning."

Watson stared ponderously down at his lover as he was led out of his room. _Who rules over whom here?_

They sat down to toast and coffee at the table by the window. Outside, it was a smoggy gray morning congested with fog. The summer heat had simmered to a low boil from the moistness in the air, and the promise of rain scented the faint breeze.

"Nasty turn of the weather," Watson commented.

Sherlock turned his face to the window. "Do you think so?" he asked. "But the rain tempers the heat. Look how the morning mist lights the rooftops like a halo. Do you see?"

Watson stared at him. "I see that you are in good spirits."

Sherlock allowed himself a small, self-satisfied smile. "So I am, friend, so I am."

Sherlock reached to the pocket where he normally kept his watch, made a face of realization, and then turned on his chair to see the clock.

"Where is your--"

Before Watson finished the question, Sherlock had stood. He walked over to the door, poised himself beside it. He took Watson's cane from the umbrella stand and held it up in his hand.

"What in God's name are you doing?"

"Shhh, Watson," Sherlock breathed. "Return to your coffee, act normal."

Watson opened a newspaper and looked away from him. "I would love to know the exact definition of what 'normal' is around here," he grumbled.

The door opened suddenly, and King Ormstein barged in. Watson looked up, eyebrows raised. So, Sherlock was not the only one in London with foul manners.

"Have you got-- Agh!"

Sherlock tripped him with the cane, coming around him and punching him across the face. The King stared at him in shock, then rammed him into the wall. Sherlock looked a bit surprised at the strength of the action, struggling. Watson gaped at them.

_Well, he said to act normal, _he thought, shrugging. He opened the newspaper and went back to his coffee.

Sherlock held his own against the enormous man for a time. They moved fully into the room from the door, knocking over and breaking things as they went. Ormstein overcame the much smaller man, however, shoving him into the wall finally.

"What is this!" he roared. His German accent made him nearly incoherent in his temper. "You dare to attack me! I was called up here with believing you had the photograph! And you do this!"

He reached his arm back to punch Holmes, who braced himself, but Watson had come up by then. He grabbed onto the man's arm, stopping the blow with effort, and separated the two. He came around to stand protectively before Sherlock, which made the King hesitate. Sherlock and he were breathing hard from the effort, while Ormstein did not appear to have even broken a sweat.

"I am immensely sorry for this, King," Watson apologized. He shot Sherlock an angry look. "I wish I knew what it was about."

"It is about my being party to a murder attempt," Sherlock said, straightening his jacket indignantly. He pointed threateningly at Ormstein. "I took the case for you, and you went behind my back with your uncouth attempt on Irene Adler's life!"

Watson frowned. "What is this?"

"Outside the church yesterday," Sherlock explained, nodding at Ormstein, "the king's hired ruffians attacked Ms. Adler."

Watson looked at the King. "Is this true?" he demanded.

The king gave a great, rumbling sigh. "It is true," he admitted, looking regretful. "I apologize, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, it was beneath me. You see, it is coming very close to the day of my marriage, and I have been desperate."

Sherlock crossed his arms. "That is no excuse."

"No, it is not," Ormstein agreed. "You were right to attack me, though I warn you never to do it again. In my country, you would not be breathing now."

"I forgive you," Sherlock said airily.

Watson grimaced. _Holmes has the attitude of a spoiled royal himself. In fact, he is even more intolerable than this king!_

Ormstein shook his hand regardless. "Well, it is now over. As to the case?"

Sherlock beckoned them both over to the seats by the fireplace. Watson and Ormstein took the chairs, while Sherlock addressed them both from the sofa. He sat in his lazy manner, one leg over the other, and pressed his fingertips together. Watson wondered if he was affecting the regal disposition deliberately to spite the king.

"You said on the telephone that you have solved it," the King said. "Do you have it?"

Sherlock met his eyes evenly. "Not yet."

"But you have hopes?"

"I have hopes," Sherlock echoed coolly.

Watson twitched. The attitude was definitely affected, and he caught a glimmer of amusement in Holmes' eyes. Watson stifled a smile, admiring the gall of his companion.

"Then let us go," Ormstein said, getting to his feet. "I am all impatience."

"We must have a cab."

"My brougham is waiting."

"Excellent."

The three began to leave. On the way down the stairs, Sherlock kept to Watson's side, as the king went down ahead. He still had the cane he had tripped the man with.

"New one, Watson?"

Watson eyed him. "Oh, er, yes. Yes, it is. My last one, ah, broke."

Sherlock clicked a hidden button on the handle, and metal glinted as he detached handle from stick an inch. "Very nice, Doctor."

"I just thought, given your hazardous occupation--" Watson snatched it back. "--it might be useful to have."

"I approve."

Watson shook his head, saying cynically, "Your approval means the world to me, love."

"I know it does."

Sherlock went on ahead then, before Watson could satisfy his urge to give him a tap with the new cane. He sheathed the hidden blade again, and twirled the thing around in one hand. Though he had only been a medic, he had learned in the war to never go unarmed. He preferred, as he had then, to arm for both gunfight and hand-to-hand conflict. The service revolver in his jacket pocket took care of the first, while this new concealed sword would nicely take care of the second.

As they were driven, Sherlock explained the entire matter to the King. The large man listened closely to every word. There was a sense of longing in him when Irene was mentioned, and Watson was now certain the man had never gotten past his daring old flame.

"Married!" the King exclaimed upon hearing of it. "To whom, whom is this Norton?"

"An English lawyer."

"She cannot possibly love him!"

"You should hope that she does," Sherlock told him. "I am betting much on her loving him."

Watson interjected, "How?"

Sherlock looked between the two as if they were the dumbest creatures walking the face of the planet. Watson bristled. The King did not seem to notice, so preoccupied was he with the subject of Irene's marriage.

"If the lady loves her husband, she does not love Your Majesty," Sherlock said dryly. "If so, she will not care enough to bother interfering in his marriage. Besides, the picture becomes a double-edged sword then; should her husband see it, he might divorce her. She will be more hesitant to show it publicly."

"This is true, but--" The King broke off, sitting back with a thoughtful look on his face. "Ah, if only she were of my station! What a queen the woman would have been!"

He fell into a brooding silence. Sherlock raised his eyebrows, shared an amused smile with Watson. Watson gave him a stern look, not thinking it very well to laugh at people's misery. This look only seemed to amuse Sherlock further.

At the Briony Lodge, an elderly woman opened the door. She was hunched, her face seamed with papery wrinkles, thickest at the corners of her mouth and the glossy dark eyes that looked half-blind. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I presume?" she asked, her voice curtly British and telling of long years of proper service.

Sherlock looked startled. "Yes, I am," he said, though he sounded uncertain of this simple fact. "I am Mr. Holmes."

"Indeed!" the old lady nodded, twice. "My mistress informed us that you might call. She regrets that she has left the country this morning with her husband. The 5:15 train from Charing Cross for America."

Sherlock had a reaction like one Watson had never seen. His face drained of all its color in seconds, and he staggered back. Thinking he might fall, Watson supported him, holding him at the arm and shoulder.

"What!" Sherlock cried. "That cannot-- It-- Impossible! She could not have!" He barged up to the woman. "Are you saying that she has left England?"

"Never to return."

"And the papers?" asked the King hoarsely. "It is all lost!"

Sherlock had a look of fierce denial on his face. "We shall see about that," he growled.

He pushed past the old lady, almost knocking her down, and came into the home. Watson and the King followed him. The place was in complete disarray, furniture knocked over and hanging open at the doors and drawers. Sherlock rushed to the panel behind the bell-pull, yanking it open and reaching inside madly.

He pulled out a photograph, but not the one the case depended upon. This photo was of Irene alone, and was signed in the corner, very much a stage lady's portrait. Beside it, there was a letter, superscribed to, "Sherlock Holmes, Esq. To be left till called for".

Sherlock tore it open, and Watson and the King read it with him over his diminutive shoulder.

The lady's letter read,

"_My dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,_

_I must say, you performed most admirably. I have not been near as taken in by anyone as I nearly was by you, at least not for a long time. How very remarkable your guises were! I never would have believed that spindly clergyman was the same as the old groom that helped me--Even both men having saved me on the same day did not bring to mind the possibility of it being more than a coincidence! I could not think evil of that clergyman, though I should have suspected right away. Male costume is nothing new to me, and I myself am a trained actress. It was your eyes that began to betray you, though; they are unforgettable, beautiful eyes. Even so, I had doubts right until the supposed fire. Only after I betrayed myself did I stop to think about it, and then it dawned upon me. It was very close, Mr. Holmes. I have not faced such a challenge before. How interesting!_

_To your credit, I had fair warning beforehand. Sources of mine informed me that the King had hired a detective of the finest caliber, and I was given your name and address. You do see how well you did, do you not? Even with warning, description, and name, I still revealed myself to you._

_It was I that wished you goodnight last night, a final farewell I could not resist. I followed you and your partner, Dr. Watson, to the door of 221B Baker Street. I must admit, I was flattered to confirm being the object of the esteemed Mr. Sherlock Holmes' attentions. _

_Still, when discussing it with my husband, it was decided the best action to take would be to flee. How else avoid the chase of such a formidable antagonist such as yourself? As to the photograph, your client may rest in peace. I am in love with and loved by a man better than he. I will keep it, of course, to deter him from taking any actions against the one who he has so cruelly wronged. However, it is only a safeguard, and I shall not use it unless provoked to do so. Finally, I leave him with his guilt, and my picture. May he do what he will with both; and I remain, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,_

_ Very Truly Yours,_

_ Irene Norton __née __Adler"_

"What a woman!" exclaimed the King. "Did I not tell you how fast, how resolute she was? What a queen she would have made! Ahhh, such a pity she was not on my level!"

"Indeed, she was on a very different level from Your Majesty," Sherlock said, his voice dripping ice. He held the paper so tightly its edges were crinkling in his pale fingers. He turned on the King. "I am sorry that I have not concluded your case successfully."

"On the contrary, good fellow, nothing could be more successful," the King told Sherlock. "Her word is inviolate. Believe me, the picture is safe if she says it is."

Sherlock's lips tightened into a thin line. He stared at the man for a moment, then said, shaking his head, "If you say it is so, then it is. I am glad to hear it."

Watson lingered nearby, a fist to his chin. His brow was furrowed deeply with thought. After a moment, he shook himself out of it, looked down at Holmes. He thought he would be amused to see his partner taken down a notch, but he found himself merely concerned for his physical and mental health. Sherlock looked completely drained.

The King clapped Sherlock on the shoulder, nearly bowling him over. "I am immensely grateful to you, Mr. Holmes," he said reassuringly. "If there is anything I can do to repay you. Here--" He removed an emerald snake ring from his mighty hand. "--this ring--"

Sherlock's eyes were glazed again, and he stared out into nowhere. "Actually, there is another item Your Majesty has in his possession that I would value more highly."

"You have but to name it."

Sherlock slipped the picture from the King's hands. Watson froze, blue eyes going wide. The King stared at the little Englishman ponderously.

"Irene's photograph!" exclaimed Holmes, sounding caught between rapture and bitterness. "If you wish, of course."

"Of-of course, sir," the King stammered, though his eyes lingered upon the picture longingly. He grinned, and burst into a loud, guffawing laugh. "Haaa ha ha! But of course, my friend!"

Sherlock glared at it, scowled, and then sighed. He ran a hand over his face, through his hair, and stormed out of the Briony Lodge. The two men followed him.

Outside, the King offered them a ride in his brougham, but Sherlock declined. The large man shook both Sherlock's and Watson's hand, then bid them farewell. Sherlock took another look at the picture, slipped it into his jacket breast pocket. He then shoved his hands deep into his pant pockets, and stared blankly at the street. He was evidently falling into another mood.

"Are you all right?" Watson inquired tentatively.

Nothing.

"You underestimated her, you know," Watson said gently. "You made assumptions based upon nothing other than her gender. It was not a mistake you would have made with a man."

Again, nothing.

"Say something, Sherlock!" Watson exclaimed fearfully. "For goodness' sake, don't be a child!"

Sherlock shook his head, refused to speak. Watson exhaled, rubbing his shoulder comfortingly. "There, there."

Sherlock hailed a hansom, and went to get in. Watson stopped him with a tug on his arm.

"You go on ahead home, dear," he told him. "I have something to tend to."

Sherlock made no sign of having heard him, climbing into the cab alone. Watson got one last glimpse of his friend's pale, dismayed face, and then shut the door on him.

_I don't know whether to laugh at him or cry for him, _he mused. _Poor thing. If I know him, this stings him more than any whipping ever could. What am I saying? He deserves it! All those things he has been saying about women being unintelligent, well! What can he say now?_

_Ah, but I am a mother hen after all. I don't want him to hurt, not by my actions and certainly not by anyone else's._

Watson took out his pocket watch, gave it a glance.

_There should be just enough time. After, I'll go home, have a laugh at his expense, and then comfort him as best I can. _

_Ms. Adler will never know what she missed by not being wholly taken in by Sherlock. More's the pity for her._

**Chapter Five**

The Char's Cross station was full to the brim, sleek black vehicles still on their tracks as passengers bustled into them. Watson made his way through the crowd in a brisk, assertive stride. Behind him, Lestrade of the Yard and a few other officers followed. He gestured for them to wait nearby, and then went on ahead to the boarding area. The man pushed his hat over his eyes, glancing this way and that beneath the shadow of it furtively.

His eyes recognized the figure even though her face was turned aside and hidden by a broad-brimmed summer hat. It was not a figure he would forget soon, and he was certain of the woman's identity. He came up to her side, hooking his arm in hers so suddenly that she was actually taken by surprise.

"Wh--"

"Now, now, do not make a fuss here, miss," Watson said under his breath. He glanced back at the waiting officers. "You wouldn't want to garner attention just now, would you?"

Irene inhaled sharply, following his gaze to the police. Worry flashed across her face, but he saw her force it back, the features smoothing back into their usual bemused, ladylike expression.

"Very good, Mr. Watson," she said. "You've found me."

"I never lost you, in fact," Watson said, walking with her casually (away from the boarding steps). "I knew the old woman that informed us of your departure was you. You did not guess what Sherlock's next move would be until that morning, and you rushed into the disguise."

"A perfect disguise, especially given the rush," Irene said, lifting her face indignantly. "How in the world could you have seen through it? You make guesses, and happened upon being correct!"

"That may have been true once, but I have learned a thing or two from my friend," Watson smiled. "You see, it was the hands that betrayed you." He lifted her hand, slipped off a glove. "Far too young for a woman of such obvious age."

"You noticed!"

"That you attempted to cover them with your shawl when you realized your error? Yes, I did, and Sherlock would have, as well, had your words not thrown him first," Watson said. "Very clever of you to shock him with his apparent failure right off. The proverbial slap in the face; it stunned him beautifully."

"Well, well, so the good Doctor is more than a witless accomplice," Irene murmured. "Still! You were too late then, and you are even later now."

"Not entirely," Watson said. He stopped walking, though he kept a firm grip on her arm. "You disguised yourself and remained at the house to waylay Holmes in case he gave chase. Your husband left in the hansom that was departing just as we arrived, was he not? And the photograph went with him."

Irene's eyelids fluttered momentarily. She licked her lips, said softly, "Yes."

"Both are already boarded on this train."

A whispered, "Yes." She shook herself out of the shock, lifting her chin impudently. "And what shall you do now, Doctor? Have us both arrested?"

"There is time to come to that yet," Watson said coolly. "First, tell me, what of Holmes?"

Irene turned her face. "What of him?" The scorn rang false.

"You were very cruel to him."

"His fault for allowing it," Irene said curtly. "I am sure the King gave him proper warning about me. If he chose to think of me as just another foolish harlot, he deserved what he got."

"I agree."

The lady blinked. "You do?"

"Yes," Watson said. "Sherlock is a boastful, snobbish, dismissive rogue. He thinks himself a god in a realm of fools."

"You sound very fond of him," Irene chuckled knowingly.

"I am, actually," Watson said quietly. "And you?"

"He is a man I . . . could have come to like very much," Irene confessed. "When I normally look at men, I often get frustrated with them. Here are the creatures that own the world, the minds that turn the wheels of history—and what do they do with such power? They act foppishly, chasing the myth of intelligence and strutting around with an air of pretended culture! They learn, but so few of them ever _think_! Like our dear King, for example."

"What did he do to you, then?"

"He did the worst thing a man could do: he _lied _to me," Irene said, her dark eyes snapping. "How strong and confident that oaf acted. He would give up his kingdom for me if necessary, said he. Lies! When it came to it, he hemmed and hawed, giving up all his excuses of duty and honor and blood. He is only fortunate," the lady sniffed haughtily, "that I did not spill his blood."

"I see."

"No, you do not see," Irene said wearily. "You are a man, Doctor, only a man. No man could ever see it clearly."

Watson smiled to himself. Her attitude reminded him so distinctly of Sherlock. Had Sherlock not said words similar?

_Neither realizes that I do understand, perhaps more clearly than either of them, _he thought. _It is usually the outsider that sees the picture in its entirety. _

"So," Irene said, tossing her head. "The train shall depart soon. Shall you keep me from my husband and my free life?"

"Do you love him?"

"My husband?"

"Yes."

"It is none of your concern."

"Fair enough," Watson said. He rubbed his chin, looked back at Lestrade. He let a long moment pass, feeling the woman's tension building.

"Last call!"

The train was starting up, white smoke billowing from it. She glanced at the shining black behemoth, and her eyes widened. She started in an attempt to move, but Watson held her in place.

"I warn you, Doctor, do not make me desperate."

"You would not attempt anything, not with the Yard so close at hand," Watson called her bluff. "You are in luck today, however, Ms. Adler. I am not going to have you arrested."

He released her arm, removing his hat and bowing. "I bid you farewell."

Irene moved to the boarding steps, hesitated. "Why?" she asked suspiciously. "Why turn me loose?"

"Because unlike you, I would gain no pleasure from besting Sherlock in his own game," Watson said. "An arrogant devil that deserves it though he may be, there is a point I would not go beyond."

Irene looked guilty. She turned away in a huff, hurrying up the steps. However, she leaned back out the train door, holding her hat on her head as the train began to move. "Doctor!"

Watson followed slowly, then at a jog. "Yes, m'lady?"

Irene smiled her most winning smile. "Take care of him."

Watson stopped, grinned. As she was whisked away by the train, he tipped his hat to her. After that, she was gone, a pale, thin wisp vanishing into the gleaming, dark metal.

Watson thought he should wish her good riddance, but found he could not. All in all, he did not dislike Irene Adler. She was a rogue to rival Sherlock, and there was something admirable about that. Not the sort of woman he would choose, mind, but he thought that if anything ever happened to him, he would not be unhappy to see Sherlock move on with her.

_Not that I intend to go anywhere, _Watson thought, smiling. _My place is with Sherlock, and shall be for as long as I can see ahead._

In better spirits, Watson moved from the tracks into the station. He thanked Lestrade for his help, regretting to inform him that the lady did not have information on the small criminal matter he had been pursuing. The police seemed relieved enough to see no action on this steamy hot day, but Watson bought them all a round at the nearest pub, anyway. When they were drunk enough, Watson was able to extract promises from each of them not to tell Holmes about his investigating on his own.

_**From the personal diaries of John H. Watson, M.D.**_

"_It was late by the time I returned to Baker Street, well past lunch. I half-expected to find Sherlock in the hold of some drug, but he was not. I found the picture of Irene framed on a table of his, the clutter that had been there before it abruptly swept to the floor, it looked like. Sherlock was pacing, plucking at that fiddle, so distracted with his thoughts that he seemed not to hear me entering. _

"_Are you well, Sherlock?' I asked him hesitantly. If he had met me with silence, I might have had him hospitalized right then._

"_Yes, Watson, I am very well,' he said in his low, brisk tone. 'Why would I be otherwise?'_

"_This business with Ire--'_

"_Most interesting, that woman,' Sherlock murmured. 'Was she not? Should she meet her demise due to her scheming ways, I must find a way to study her brain. It must be somehow more developed than the average woman's.'_

"_What a thing to say!' I scolded him. 'Now, were it not for that very derision, you would not have been so completely hoodwinked by her.'_

"_Sherlock bristled then. ' I was . . . not--'_

"_She made a fool out of you, and you know it,' I told him, allowing myself a chuckle. 'Can't you even own up to it like a man, Holmes?'_

"_He glanced at me from his pacing, but said nothing. I came up to him, following his circulatory steps a bit, and then put an arm around his waist. He was smarting enough for the moment, so I gave his face a consoling kiss. 'For what it is worth, I never expected you to fail, either,' I told him. 'Not because she was a beautiful woman, but because you are Sherlock Holmes. You see? I have come to believe in your legend, as even royals in Europe do! Not all is lost.'_

"_Sherlock smiled, but it was a pained gesture. 'Not all, I suppose,' he said. 'But enough.'_

"_With that, he moved out of my embrace. I inquired as to where he was going, but he did not tell me. In moments, he had put on his jacket again, and left. I ran after him, but by the time I reached the street, he had hopped in a cab, and was being driven off. There was no other cab on the street, and I had lost him._

"_I trusted that he needed time to lick his wounds alone, so I went back up to our rooms to eat. Of course, as time slipped by, I began to fret. Sherlock was not so depressed that he would harm himself, was he? No, he seemed to love his own existence far too much for that. Yet, his expression had been that of a broken man . . . and, he had never before tasted such bitter defeat._

"_I went out in the early evening, asking all around the city for him. It was late when I found him at a fighting pit, lightly bruised but having won a fair fortune. I waited until his last match was over with, and then followed him. He had an attic above the pub whose basement was the arena, which they let him occasionally stay in for a small price, and here I found him. He was lying flat on his back, staring at the slanted ceilings, several bottles of liquor around him. One was already empty. I had the feeling he had spent the entire day between here and the fights._

"_I knelt down beside him, and was inclined to check his pulse. It was hammering away inside his veins from the exertion, and now his chest began to heave with deep, steady breaths. He turned those eyes which Irene had found so beautiful on me, and I smiled warmly at him._

"_All of a sudden, he sat up and threw his arms around me. 'Thank God for you, Watson!' he cried. I could feel his hands clinging to the back of my jacket, his sweat moistening my collar and face. He smelled like alcohol and sweet perspiration. He repeated fiercely, 'ThankGod.'_

"_I understood then that all his fears of women were justified in his eyes. He had shown interest in a lady, and she had been his first professional defeat. He had liked her, perhaps even desired her, and she had torn him down utterly. I grimaced, aware that now he would **never **trust himself with a female again. At the same time, I was relieved he still trusted me, and I felt warmed by his words._

"_I met his lips with mine, and he kissed me back so vigorously that he nearly broke my nose. We were overtaken by emotions then, and there are no words poignant to describe the rest of that night._

**Epilogue**

_**From the personal diaries of John H. Watson, M.D.**_

"_We stayed in that little room for the week, and made frequent visitations back to the place for the rest of the summer. Sherlock was true to his word, and began teaching me his methods of fighting. It was difficult to swallow my own pride enough to let my charge have control over me, but I allowed it. At first, he was clearly hesitant to hurt me (for what reasons, I shall never know), but then he became aggressive. He was paying me back for the humiliation and pain of the punishments, I knew. It became a bit rough between us at times, but we always ended up in one another's arms, regardless. The activity also seems to have distracted him from the Irene Adler affair, and from the lure of drugs. I shudder to think of his emotional crash when it becomes too cold to come out and practice fighting together._

"_Ah, a little thing of note. Perhaps he is not so distracted, after all. Today, I saw that he had gotten his pocket watch back, the one I had been about to inquire about before the King burst in upon us that black morning. At first, I could discern no reason for his having put it in a shop; it did not appear to have been broken, and he never had commented on its not working. It was when he removed it when undressing for the night that I saw the answer. He had fitted a sovereign to the watch chain. I knew whose it was, of course, but I asked him regardless,_

"_Whose sovereign was that?'_

"_I found his returned scowl quite cute in its sincerity. 'The woman's,' he retorted._

"_That is how he refers to Ms. Adler, ever since that day. 'The woman'. It seems to me that he is the reverse of most people: Whereas it is usual to cite important persons by name, he cites the most significant people in his life by title. I am 'Doctor', and Irene is now 'the woman'. _

"_The account of 'the woman' shall be written out once the fall sets in, as I am busy with these fighting lessons of Holmes'. I have jotted down the most important details to help my memory, though I doubt I could forget one wit of that little case. It was the case that finally broke him down into confessing how very much he loves and needs me, the case that has driven him entirely away from women (for a while, at least), the case in which I, secretly, was the sole party to follow it through to the end. It was his most profitable case yet, and also the one in which he lost everything. Funny how life goes._

"_But I do not worry too much for him. He is already building his arrogance back up. I dare not mention the case, for that is a loaded weapon with him. Later on, I'm sure it will serve as a very useful reminder of his fallibility. For now, I am playing the fool by actually helping him rebuild his ego. After all, I love Sherlock Holmes, and he would not be Holmes if he were not the arrogant, difficult man I fell in love with._

"_It is madness, I know, but love is in itself quite a mad little scandal."_

**The End**


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